Vodka's Taint
by chrnoskitty
Summary: The Soviet Union is many years collapsed, and, upon the receiving of some mysterious flowers, Russia can't help but recall his glory days. And what he wants for those who went away.


**Vodka's Taint**

It was just like any other day in Russia's house. Since the fall of the Soviet Union, things had become quiet, far too quiet, in the ever-diminishing Russian household. The only sounds of terror from within were far too often his own, when ever his youngest sister chose to make an unfortunate visit.

And even those were becoming fewer and fewer.

Not that he minded. Of course not. Less of Belarus was a good thing, a very grand thing indeed. It was the less of everyone else that was... taxing. For years he had had constant company, (even if it be against their will) in the forms of the Baltics and the insipid Poland.

Then there had been those years. The on / off again years with the crazed American; the butter blonde constantly spouting things against him, and showing off his _true _colours. Those years had been quite fun, almost enjoyable. It had been a side of the so-called hero the rest of the world wasn't usually so privileged to see.

The memory of the ordeal made him grin; if an emotionless baring of teeth at nothing but the emptied bottle of drink could be graced with such a label. Violet oculi drifted to the window parallel to the table, scanning over Moscow. The city was busy, as a nations capital were oft to be, but the hustle and bustle of the city outside didn't quite compare to the sweeping silence inside.

The chair creaked as he extracted himself from it, but even that seemed eerily quiet. Even the sound of his boots, usually loud and deep for one such as himself, seemed to be sucked into the silence. Here was the study; Eduard could often be found in here, tinkering on and off with the computers. Across the way was the library, where Raivis would often sit, a book open in his lap but trembling so hard none could believe he'd actually ever _read_ any of the books. And here was the kitchen, where Toris could often be found, like a good housewife; cleaning or cooking. It really was a shame that one had to be let go, too. He was such fun~

Ah, and here was the window that Poland had broke, thinking a note tied to a rock, (such a silly thing~) would get to his precious Lithuania before Russia himself could see it. He went over to it now; it had been years ago, and the window had been replaced, but the memory would remain. The shards of glass glittering in the early morning sun, droplets of blood glinting like little gems are he read and re-read the embarassing thing aloud, forcing its intended recipient to pick up each and every shard in those oh-so-delicate hands.

Gloved hands came to rest on the panes of glass, and even through the centuries-faithful leather, he could feel the underlying coolness. Spring might have come, but Summer, even in Russia, was a long way off. If one squinted and looked into the distance, they could see the countryside, and sometimes even Ukraine, tending to her fields.

That wasn't what caught his attention today. No, his attention was much more localised. There seemed to be something on the front step - He could only see a few hints of green, and a smattering of lavender, from where he stood now. Leaving his memories of the past, (they would still be there later, and he could form them to fit his own mold as he saw fit when nothing else was afoot), he vacated the room and headed down the stairs.

The same faint chill as the pains of glass upstairs permeated the brass, but Russia payed it no heed. There was a bigger curiousity sitting on his stoop. Twisting the knob, the faint metal 'clang' as the locking mechanism let loose forgotten, as the door glided effortlessly over the linoleum.

Effectively blocking his front exit, sat a rather large plant. It had obviously been tended for with some love, its leaves the deep, healthy green of foliage exposed to just the right amounts of sunlight and water, its flowers already healthily in bloom. The heady aroma was intoxicating, but they phased the wheat-blonde nation in the least.

Violet eyes looked down on flowers of a similar hue, and frowned. "It is too bad that they are not sunflowers," He remarked, to no one in particular. Living by oneself often had that effect on a person, and for an already cracked nation. Well... things were interesting, to say the least.

Disappointed in the gift of some mysterious benefactor, he turned to head back into the house, the door swinging halfway closed when a change of heart hit him. "Well..." Russia muttered, nudging aside the door with his hip, and retrieving the plants from their perch. It wouldn't hurt to bring them inside, for a few days, until they wilted of their own accord.

Humming to himself for no viable reason, Russia brought the flowers into the house. There was a clattering of cupboards and glasses being moved around - the most noise the house had had in some months - as he set around looking for a container.

The flowers new home ended up being an old, but rather large, vodka bottle. Filling the container with just enough water, Russia moved the plants to where they could get some sunlight. Flowers liked sun, didn't they? "I wonder how long it will take for you to die, da?" He chirped, typical childish smile on his face, as he rested his folded arms upon the countertop and stared intently at the flowers. They gave no intention of replying, but that didn't deter him any. "Hmmm. I guess we shall just have to wait and see, da~?"

Continuing to hum to himself, Russia left the counter for a couple minutes, to go and brew a pot of tea. It was too early in the day, (Or so others would tell him), for the very drink that had once been in the bottle that now housed the mysterious flowers. Blowing the steam away from the hot beverage and taking a sip, Russia raised one pale eyebrow at them. Suspicion was slowly creeping in.

Setting the tea cup on the counter beside the plants, he eyed them warily. "I do wonder who sent you, da~", he murmured, placing an absent-minded finger to pale lips in thought. Interrogating the flowers really was getting him no where. Heaving a sigh, Russia extracted a single flower from the vase; childish grin melting into a scowl as the movement jostled some pollen from the plant. "Ick," He grumbled, childishly, as the yellow powder settled onto his glove. It didn't stay there long, though, as he wiped it onto his coat.

Turning over the flower in his hand, examining it more closely, he hummed a low, calm, curious note, and liberated the flower of a petal. And another. And another; letting them fall carelessly to the linoleum, their sacrifices unknown and silent. Forgotten as the petals were, the wheat-blonde nation redirected his attention to the stem of the plant. Vibrantly green leaves adorned it. Lips curling up into a wicked smile, he plucked a single leaf; crumbling the foliage in his fingers, before it, too, were relegated to the linoleum coffin.

Just as he was about to go for another leaf, a faint humming sound that was not his own caught his attention. While his focus had been upon slowly mutilating the flower, a temporary tenant of the bloom had responded to the impromptu eviction notice, and was crawling about on his hand. "Oh? How cute~" Heavy hand moved silently and unfalteringly through the air to the vodka-bottle-turned-vase, titling it in just the right manner for the bee to take the hind and clamber onto a more indiscriminate blossom. "I am sure that you will be much happier there, da~?"

Whence the bee had settled back into the fluffy lilac depths, Russia's attention returned to the one he held in his hand. A part of it was already looking quite bare, and he couldn't help but giggle at the sight of it. "Oh my, what a shame it is to die like this~" He giggled again, a note of perverse innocence invading his voice. It was just the sort of tone that was exactly normal for the Russian, but would always cause the other nations' finer hairs to stand on end and be oh so delightfully wary for the rest of the evening. "Hmm~ I think I shall name you Raivis, da? And they," A slight turn of the heel so that he could indicate the rest of the flowers cloistered on the counter, "Can be Toris, and Eduard, and Feliks, and Alfred~ And soon, they will be dead, too, da?"

With the end of that minour soliloquy, skilled, Russian hands returned to peeling the flower apart; bit by bit, and humming merrily all the way. In the end, he had a pile of green and lavender mush in his hand. "Oh, look, Raivis~ You have fallen apart, da? Hmmm... I think I shall take the land~" His fist closed in on the shredded foliage, balling it up, "Look at that, you are now one with Russia~" His fingers uncurled, and the balled up mess of green and purple clanged to the table with a dull 'thud', rolling over onto the floor, as he reached for another.

"Ah, Toris~ How nice of you to visit, da?" Mercilessly, a good chunk of the petals were liberated from the flower "How terrible, da? You just lost an arm~" Another good chunk of petals were torn away, falling silently from his fingers as he giggled. "And there goes your other one~" A soft 'crack' as the twig-like stem was snapped.

"And there, there go your legs," He murmured, in the wistful tone of one overcome with nostalgia. "So that you cannot run away anymore. You were always good at that. And your face-" His thumb pressed down on the tip of the flower, pollen getting all over the place; the remaining petals falling from the trunk. "How lovely it always looked when you would cry~"

Holding only a crumpled, half-remains of a barren stem, he allowed it to slide from his fingers as he reached for yet another flower. Two more still sat in the impromptu vase, but their turn would come. "Ah! Eduard~ It is such a shame that you had to see your brother die like that~," He cooed, no note of even false sincerity reaching the words, as he arranged his mouth into a mocking pout; which quickly brightened.

"Ah! But do not worry~ You will join them soon, da?" Slowly, he began plucking the petals from the plant as well, "Ah, and you were always such a pain, too," He mock-sighed, before growing fed up with the process of slowly dismembering the lilac, and simply clutched his fist around it, and balled it up. "Dasvidanya~" He chirped, as the clumped-up flower was entrusted to the company of the others.

"My, my~ It seems that soon there will be no more comrades left, da?" The question hung unanswered in the air, as he surveyed the contents of the makeshift vase. Two flowers remained. One, as he plucked it from the container; little droplets of vodka-tainted water appeared on the counter. This he paid no heed, instead redirecting his attention to the flower. "Ah, Feliks. I am sure you would be _totes_ mad at what I did to Toris, da~?" He asked, with another giggle. Ruffling the Poles' feathers was always amusing, even if the blonde nation was usually too annoying to even be worth the effort.

In taking the flower from the jar, Russia had managed to once again upset the little bee- Who crawled down the stem and trotted angrily to-and-fro upon his gloved hand, buzzing intensely. "A-Ah!" To tell the truth, Russia had completely forgotten about the fuzzy-bodied insect, and thusly, hadn't been expecting to see it again. "I'm sorry, little bee. It seems I've taken your flower, da? Ahhh, do not sound so angry. Here, there are much more flowers outside, da?" He placated the insect, opening the window, and shooing the insect out. A light breeze chose that opportune moment to blow by gently, facilitating the insect's departure. Once it had taken to the wind, Russia closed the window behind him. Spring might have sprung, but there was still that faint bite of winter in the wind.

That faint bite of winter that never seemed to leave, no matter how many sunflowers he surrounded himself with, or how warm the given temperature was.

He returned to the flower, an unnaturally wide smile on his face. "Aahh, Feliks~ It is time to partition Poland now, da?" He chirped, taking both hands and pulling the flower apart. In a matter of seconds it nothing but remnants of a once lovely flower, flowing down to meet with the rest of the scraps. "Ah, but, do not worry, da? I will put you back together, with glue from your ponies."

Ah. Was that all of them? The Russian paused, his back to the counter, and thought; surveying the petals and various stalk-like workings, shredded in piles on the ground. _No_, he thought, instinctively reaching for the final flower - a decidedly predatory grin curling his lips. "My, My," He cooed, voice dripping poisoned honey, as he looked at the flower. "The _hero_ had to watch his friends die, da?"

Slowly he slid a finger up the stem, as if he possessed the intent to simply "pop" the "head" of the flower off; much like the treatment weeds were given by grade-schoolers at playtime, when his finger snagged on something. Even through his glove, he could tell it was sharp - sharp enough to penetrate the worn leather of the garments.

"You little...," He growled, switching the flower into his other hand, inspecting it superficially before returning his attention elsewhere. Mellowing out. "You certainly are like Alfred, da? A pain. ...We shall fix that, da?" That false note again, chipper, cheery, and far too eerie, slid into his voice as he grasped for some scissors; face contorting into the sort of grin that might be mistaken for happiness... if one did not look too long.

Scissors in hand, Russia set to work disarming the plant. _Snip, snip, snip_, a very faint, almost wood-y clack, as each thorn methodically hit the floor. Adding to the pile of those previously fallen. Nothing could do them good now. Nothing would.

There was really no intent to stop before dismembering the rest of the plant, but the site where he had been pricked had begun to itch. He almost ignored the nuisance, before a film of paranoia enveloped him. This was _America_, he was dealing with. The idiot was probably "testing" something. Something that said it would do one thing, but would end up doing nothing - nothing it was supposed to, but something far worse. It was better to be safe, than sorry.

Resting both the scissors and the dis-armed flower on the counter, Russia removed his gloves, and cleansed the 'wound', a simple prick, really, of whatever might have been there. Potential crisis averted, he picked up the flower again; a bead of water from his own hand dripped down the stem. In his mind's eye, he saw red.

"Goodbye, America~" He said in a toneless voice that did not match the child's smile on his face, as he brought the scissors up to the stalk, not hesitating even a second as he snipped off the "head" of the flower; gleefully reveling in the moment. "This, this is much better, da? This is the way you should be."

He lifted his booted foot, and brought it down upon the still mostly in-tact flower. "Dead." And lowered it, turning it to pulpy mush that clung to the bottom of his boot.

Then walked away.


End file.
